


Breaking Point

by TempleVevHelm



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Obsession, Slow Burn, Time Travel, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempleVevHelm/pseuds/TempleVevHelm
Summary: Pharma is sent back to the past in order to save himself, but things are changing too fast. Pharma has to dodge the DJD's curiosity while holding them at bay long enough to think of a way to get everyone safely off of Delphi. Tarn is certainly not making things any easier for him...





	Breaking Point

Pharma shot up with a stinging rush slivering down his spinal strut. His frame strained against the movement and he gasped deeply. An icy coldness clutched at his spark and before he could help it, his frozen servos clawed at the seams of his chest armor. He frantically felt around for grooves, catches or gouges. His seams remained stubbornly shut and unmarked save for his present attempt to reach in and grab his own spark. He slumped and shivered. Pharma rubbed his clammy servos over his face. Why did he wake up? The room was cold. It felt almost familiar. His optics dimmed as the initial panic seeped away. 

Pharma looked around, almost curiously. He hadn’t had a room so well furnished since Delphi. Just the thought of his old medical colony send his spark racing again. _Don’t be stupid_ , he tried to command himself, _Tarn and the rest of his minions are gone… The worst I have to deal with are Tyrest and the rest of those—_

Pharma’s helm shot up. His optics searched wildly. His plan… His plan didn’t…

Pharma gripped at the vents on the side of his helm as his processor spun. He shouldn’t be in a habsuite. He shouldn’t even be _alive_. What _happened?_

Then, he saw it. A bookshelf. Placed expertly across each row in alphabetical order were various research notes and scientific studies and theories, likely pertaining to medicine and trauma treatment. On the second row was a holodisk, and the three figures inside shone back at him brightly. First Aid, Ambulon… And himself. A younger, more carefree version of himself. Pharma staggered to his pedes and numbly padded over to the picture. With one hand, he reached out to trace the lines of his own younger reflection grinning back at him. With the other, he lined out the stressed creases and bumps littering his own face—or at least tried to. As soon as his servo touched his faceplates his processor was awash with glorious information—things he hadn’t been able to gauge based on touch alone since he had his…

Pharma shot away from the picture and stared down at his servos. His _own_ servos. Not some—some _cheap_ and _pathetic_ excuses for hands that would serve their limited blunt purpose but—something better—something he had thought he’d never get to experience again.

Pharma’s entire frame shook as he ran his servo over the contours and seams of his other servo—information fed back to him in a constant, reassuring loop. Perfect curve. Indent from unruly patient. Perfect curve. Shapely seam connecting each plate of his palm to the other. Smooth plating. A .5 micrometer indent when he’d accidentally stabbed himself at the academy. These were _Pharma’s_ hands. _How?_

Haunted, Pharma backed up until his thighs hit the cold mesh of his old berth. He was in his old room, with his old hands, likely on Delphi.

Pharma’s processor spun as he gently pressed his servos over his optics. Had it all been a nightmare? Tyrest, the Lost Light, Ratchet’s betrayal—the DJD? Pharma’s servos swept up, gripping desperately at his helm as he stared into the darkness. There was no way he could make all that up… Something inside of him told him that it _couldn’t_ just be a processor purge. There was _no way_.

Restless, Pharma tucked his legs up to his body and shivered. He laid his helm against the cool metal of his knees and closed his optics. There was too much that he remembered—too much that he _regretted_. How could he feel so strongly about these things if they hadn’t happened? Yet Pharma couldn’t deny that he was back in his habsuite in Delphi—surrounded by Golden Age paraphernalia and holodisks and unfinished reports and half-empty energon cubes. His arms squeezed at his legs as he fought not to curl up into a ball and try to pretend he wasn’t feeling the way he was.

Pharma bit his derma and clenched his fists—sending back painful feedback loops as his servos wondered why so much force was necessary for the task he was testing them with. After a few tense moments, the fight unthreaded from him—a limp spool with no more string to give. He let his hands fall. Pharma’s legs uncurled and he did something rather uncouth—he sat back, spread his legs out, and crossed them. 

In Pharma’s defense, curling up so tight necessitated some stretching. He crossed his arms and rubbed at himself to fight back the cold of the room. He needed to think about this rationally and with as much careful consideration as he could. The last thing he remembered was being told by Primus himself what sort of horrible mistakes he’d made, followed by a rather painful light show. Damn gods and their need to frivolously throw around their powers. Pharma squinted. Primus… Pharma was so sure he was a prime—felt it in his spark. Now though, his spark felt cold and flushed with… 

Pharma sat up a bit on the berth.

He felt… Remorseful… Oddly so considering his predicament. In fact, the more Pharma thought about what his plans were and what actions of his led up to the whole Second Coming, the more he felt… Ashamed. Ashamed and embarrassed and quite a fool, if he did say so—which he rarely did. His spark felt sorry for the situation it put itself through. His spark cried out at the thought of hurting Ratchet again—of hurting Ratchet’s conjunx too. If he could do it all over again, he would never let his fear compromise the mech he always knew himself to be. 

Blinking, Pharma sat up fully on the berth. Perhaps that was it… Going back…

Pharma swung his legs over the side of the berth and strode to the desk on the far side of his berthroom. Datapads and cubes of all types littered the surface of the desk, signs of fatigue to go along with the unfinished work. He sat down and turned on the monitor—even after vorns of madness he still remembered his old password, _TheGreatMachine_. The hud monitor shone back at him—blindingly bright, and his optics darted to the upper left corner of the monitor. His spark flicked in resignation. The date shining happily back at him told him that he was awake and alive just a metacycle before the DJD would come to bring the pits to Delphi as everyone knew it.

Pharma slumped back in his chair, feeling half defeated and half vindicated. He was really doing it. He was going to have to relive this entire nightmare all over again. 

Pharma wanted to scream. He wanted to rage and kick everyone off of the planet and run right back to Ratchet and—

Pharma knew that he wouldn’t be accepted back. Not in any way that mattered. Then, when the DJD simply targeted its next planet and killed off the Autobot soldiers stationed there and anyone else they could find, they’d move to the next planet, and then the next. A never-ending wave of killing and destruction that Pharma had been used to stop the first time around. Pharma had been a source of amusement for the DJD, and the supply he offered was one that Tarn likely wouldn’t get anywhere else—assuring that he would always be close to receive payment on the orn he needed to.

Tarn.

The designation brought a hot flash of helpless rage to Pharma’s spark. Tarn was the creator of all the madness, and the one to contain it too. Pharma could feel his sanity pluck and strain just thinking about the mech.

Pharma needed to find a better prize than t-cogs to keep Tarn busy. There was no way that Pharma could keep killing just to keep Tarn appeased. Not this time. 

His processor crunched the numbers and possibilities. If he used mechs that were already dead, he could salvage their parts. Yes, yes, respect for the dead and all of that, but Pharma had real, _living_ beings he needed to keep alive—preferably all of them if he could help it. Corpses would come first—he might even need to dig some out of the old mortuary on the other side of the planet before Tarn and his pit-spawn came to offer him their “deal”. Pharma would push as far as he thought he reasonably could to see if he could work out something else, but he couldn’t come up with anything as firm as t-cog transplants. Pharma would need to brush up on his mechology and metallurgy—see if he could find a way to make a t-cog with materials he had on hand. The first time around h never got a working prototype—it wasn’t easy to grow your own organs—but this time he had more experience. 

Pharma nodded to himself as he puzzled and re-prioritized and tried to recount as much about his dealings with the DJD as he could. 

First, he needed to gather as many stable t-cogs as possible to hold him out until he could finish doing research and gathering sample materials—even broken t-cgos could be reused or stripped for bare components. If Pharma was more competent with nanotechnology and repair nanties he may be able to get the t-cogs to “heal” themselves artificially under his supervision, but he wasn’t there quite yet. Something else was missing and he needed to isolate what it was and find a way to make it another controlled variable. 

Second, Pharma needed to touch bases with his staff—he wasn’t going to tell them, gracious no, but he needed to know where he stood. He needed to gauge their reactions to his new behavior. If Pharma acted too suspiciously and distant too quickly then it was likely that Ambulon or First Aid would try to comfort and console him and catch him at a bad time—like calling Tarn or dissecting a corpse for spare parts like a sparkeater. 

Third, he needed to make contact first. As much as Tarn was probably delighted with his first little power play—wherein he appeared in Pharma’s own office to hash out his terms and demands—Pharma couldn’t risk letting Ambulon see Tarn or Tarn see Ambulon. If Tarn or any of the DJD got a close look at Ambulon and realized who he was, they would all be killed. 

Finally, Pharma had to keep at it until… Until he couldn’t go any further. 

Pharma lasted _vorns_ of stress, medical misconduct and isolation from his peers and subordinated because of what the DJD put him through. He didn’t know if he would be strong enough to last so long again. Pharma knew that eventually, he might slip, or something would come to a head and he would need to take his team and make a break for it—regardless of whether or not Prowl had a backup plan in action in case the DJD were to break their controlled bubble around Delphi.

Pharma rubbed his temple. If push came to shove, he would meet all his problems steadfast. He just needed to be careful until he could build up his reputation. Tarn was very much interested in Pharma’s elite class and lifestyle, often coming over just to sample engex mixes that had been aging vorns since the beginning of the war—delicacies that Pharma was willing to part with if it meant that he could have a few orns more to meet his quota. If he could find a way to reel Tarn in earlier than before, Pharma’s chances of survival would increase—and so would his nurses’.

Tarn didn’t like to admit weaknesses—and slag-be-he if Pharma ever called it a weakness, but Tarn’s obsession with the higher class and historical wealth was his downfall. He was never one to live in the moment. Sure he killed and tortured just fine, but for all the rest of his time he was spent in his own head, likely getting off on the idea of categorizing vintage engex and polishing his imaginary solid platinum mantle or tending expensive crystals from his own garden. It was almost funny how Tarn was such a feared Decepticon when his true dream was to push papers and live like a functionist.

Pharma’s derma quirked. Tarn would be a challenge, but one he knew how to handle. He stretched back up out of his desk chair and made his way to the berth. The only thing to do was get some recharge—hopefully by the time that morning came around, his defrag cycle would have sorted through all the important bits and left the rest up for chance.

Pharma slid into berth and pulled the mesh up to his helm. When he closed his optics, the world faded away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! There was a suspicious lack of time travel fics in the fandom so I thought I'd finally contribute lmao. Just as a warning, things Will start to get heavy, and Tarn is definitely going to be an aggressor in this fic. Hopefully I've got a couple of cool twists of my sleeve that yall will enjoy but we'll have to see! Thanks again for reading, ciao~!
> 
> ***don't leave comments asking for updates


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